Quentin Bates - Chilled to the Bone

“Understood.”

“But quick, Eiríkur. There are more people than just us sniffing around. Okay?” Gunna instructed, putting her phone away and approaching the hotel, where a bulky man with a black frown on his face was huddled in a padded coat, smoking a cigarette under the NO SMOKING sign.

“This is a non-smoking zone,” she snapped and the man glared back at her, took a final pull and flicked the butt into the slush in the gutter.

“How would you like to mind your own business?” he invited and quailed as Gunna opened her wallet in front of him.

“City police,” he said in the same sharp tone as before. “I believe you wanted a word with me. You are?”

“Hákon Hákonarson,” he said once they were inside the hotel’s lobby. “My wife works here and she was questioned twice yesterday. I just wanted to make it plain that this is unjustified and it’s not right for you people to harass her like this.”

Gunna nodded in agreement, suppressing the dislike that she’d instinctively developed for this corpulent man and his pompous manner. “If she had been interviewed twice, then I might agree with you, but there was one short interview and that was all. Where’s your wife right now?”

“At home with a headache,” Hákon retorted in a sullen voice, like a child scolded for someone else’s misdemeanor.

“And where do you live?”

“Vallarholt. Number Eighty-seven.”

“And you drove here, did you?”

“Of course.”

Gunna felt in her pocket for her keys. “Well, if you go now, you’ll be there before me.”

Hákon looked stunned. “You think you’re going to interview her again?”

“Yup.”

“She’s had two interviews already,” he protested.

“That’s as maybe. But she’s only spoken to a police officer once and I’d very much like to know who she spoke to after she left this place yesterday.” She made to go. “So I’ll see you in about half an hour, Hákon. All right?”

Valeria looked ill while Hákon fumed in a corner. The flat was spotless, with not a single one of the many china statues of ballerinas and puppies out of place. Gunna felt nervous about sitting down and ruining the careful arrangement of cushions on the sofa, so she perched on the edge instead.

“Not feeling well, Valeria?”

“It’s okay. I don’t have a shift today, so I’m not missing work.”

“Let’s track back, shall we? You found Jóhannes Karlsson’s body in his room at the hotel, right? I understand that you shouldn’t have done. According to the rules, your supervisor should have gone into the room first.”

“That’s right. Ástrós is worried about it. There will be an …” She floundered, searching for the right word.

“Investigation?” Gunna offered.

“Yes. Investigate. Soon.”

“I’ve a good mind to take the damned hotel to court and demand damages,” Hákon rumbled, unable to contain his indignation any longer. “It’s a damned disgrace that their staff should have to put up with this kind of thing.”

“Quite,” Gunna said shortly, pointedly ignoring Hákon and concentrating on Valeria, who was sitting on a hard-backed chair.

“I’m not having it, you know,” he continued, failing to take the hint. “The last time this happened-” he stopped suddenly. Gunna looked at Valeria, who was staring at her husband in horror.

“The last time this happened?” Gunna asked, breaking the long silence that followed his furious outburst. “Just what do you mean by that? Explain, will you?”

Valeria sighed. “At Gullfoss Hotel once. I only work there two months, the week I start there. Before that I was working at Harbourside Hotel. Two times at Harbourside.”

“Owned by the same company,” Hákon put in. “They asked her to switch because Gullfoss needed more reliable staff when they took it over.”

“Ástrós also. She work for these hotels for twenty years. First Arctic Hotel, then Harbourside. Then to Gullfoss. Same company for a long time. Now there are mistakes, problems, and she is worried. Not easy to find work for fifty-year-old lady.”

“What happened at the Harbourside Hotel? And how long ago?”

Magnús The doorbell chimed insistently for the third time and he hauled himself out of bed and shuffled toward the front door of the flat. He had only lived there for a few weeks and there were still boxes in the hall that needed to be unpacked.

He ran a hand through his hair, scowled at the boxes and reflected that if Sara had moved in with him instead of going back to her parents, all the crockery and ornaments would have been put in cupboards and on shelves weeks ago.

Peering through the spy hole, he could see a middle-aged man in blue overalls with his finger on the doorbell button again, as he yawned and scratched his beard with the other hand.

“Who is it?” he called through the door.

“Maintenance. There’s a water leak somewhere in the building and we’re checking all the bathrooms.”

“There’s no leak here,” Magnús called irritably.

“What? I can’t hear you?”

He could see the man on the other side cupping one ear and Magnús cursed at having had to move to a cheaper apartment with no intercom.

“Plumbing,” the man called out again. “Got to check the valves. It’ll take two minutes.”

Magnús groaned and considered going right back to bed, but in the end he gave way and opened the door to let the man and his toolbox inside.

“Where’s your bathroom, pal? Sorry to disturb you. It won’t take long.”

Magnús scratched under the baggy T-shirt he slept in and walked ahead of him along the passage. “In here. But there’s nothing wrong here,” he began, and yelped in surprise as the man pushed him forward into the bathroom, looked around quickly and put a hand firmly onto Magnús’s shoulder. A second later he was lying in the bath, dazed and with blood running down his face, wondering how the rim of the bathtub had flown up and hit his nose. The man’s hand felt huge as it descended on his face, stifling the howl of alarm that welled up inside him as his mouth was filled with a foul-tasting ball of cloth.

With a knee planted firmly in the small of Magnús’s back, the man bound his hands together with swift movements and a roll of tape, completing the task before his victim had even realized what was happening. Magnús kicked out as the man grasped his feet to bind those as well, and was instantly rewarded with a merciless jab in the ribs that left him gasping and cross-eyed with a pain he could hardly have imagined.

The man smiled and nodded, as if satisfied with his own handiwork. He leaned over him and spun the taps; ice-cold water poured into the tub, blending with scalding water that reeked of sulphur. The bulky man sat on the edge of the tub and lit a cigarette, gazing down sadly like a father contemplating a naughty child. Magnús wondered what he had done and spluttered to mumble past the ball of cloth in his mouth.

“Not a word. Understood?” The man reached forward and gripped his shirt to spin him onto his back. He then delicately pulled from his mouth what Magnús recognized as a pair of his own underpants, taken from the washing basket by the door. He felt instantly sick and sour vomit cascaded down his chest as he retched while trying desperately to protest his innocence.

“Shhhh,” the big man said. “Magnús. You’re not going to cause any fuss, are you? Of course not. Because if you do …” A hand swept forward, gripped the hair of his fringe shoved his head beneath the surface and held it there until bubbles began to appear, before hauling him back up. Magnús gasped and barely managed a lungful of air before he was back below the surface. He writhed and a maelstrom of bubbles broke the surface. The big man counted to three and hauled his head back up while Magnús gasped and retched, shuddering as he gulped down precious air.